


Make a Wish

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (crowley also loves aziraphale but that's almost a given at this point), Cuddling, M/M, Other, Stargazing, a midnight picnic, crowley loves the stars and aziraphale loves him, i've never written so much softness in my life until this challenge, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 19 of the spectacular advent calendar of prompts.Crowley loves the stars; he also loves sharing them with Aziraphale. Luckily, Aziraphale loves them (and him), too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 8
Kudos: 102





	Make a Wish

“Did you make a wish?”

By some miracle - neither of theirs, though each fondly thinks the other responsible - it is a perfect night for stargazing: crisp, clear, quiet. They are curled up together on the roof of Crowley’s building, wrapped in an overlarge down comforter with a thick tartan blanket spread across their shared lap. The remains of a midnight picnic have been discarded to the right, where Aziraphale can reach them if he gets peckish; the wine glasses sit abandoned at Crowley’s side, and the wine bottle is wedged into a tiny pocket of space between them for safekeeping.

(This is why Crowley thinks Aziraphale responsible for the perfect December night: it’s been cloudy and overcast for weeks now, always with the threat of rain or sleet or snow, and the angel has a soft spot for nighttime rooftop picnics. They haven’t been able to indulge in one, or cuddle under the sheltering dark of a night sky after, for some time, and his angel loves his indulgences; they were long overdue.)

They have made themselves a nest on the southern wall of the stairwell access, tucked into the sheltering space between the access and the raised roof edge. The down comforter provides a cushion between the cold brick of the stairwell access and their exposed wings; Crowley’s are tucked close, a mass of void that shimmers like the sky above them, enclosed in the protective white curve of two of Aziraphale’s three sets.

They can be comfortable, here, can be themselves; there’s no one around to see them, and if some late working maintenance crew were to venture to this ignored corner of roof, the simple expedience of two quiet miracles - one apiece - has made them quite unremarkable. So Crowley keeps his wings tucked in, not from caution but for warmth, a feathery mass to guard his back against the biting chill of a December night. Aziraphale has pulled out his second set of wings for quite a similar reason, though it’s Crowley’s warmth he’s sheltering, not his own. The third set is being held in reserve for when Crowley inevitably begins to tremble again, as he knows from experience that the demon will refuse to leave the roof until sunrise threatens the horizon and the stars wash out to the rosy pink of dawn.

(This is why Aziraphale thinks Crowley responsible for the perfect December night: it’s been cloudy and overcast for weeks now, always with the threat of rain or sleet or snow, and the demon has an aching fondness for the stars he placed in the sky. They haven’t been able to see them, or curl close together under the blanket of their twinkling light, for some time, and his demon loves the stars; they were long overdue.)

They can be comfortable, here, in this nest they’ve made, the secret place Crowley had shared with him that night the world failed to end. They _are_ comfortable here, night after night, whenever the sky shines brighter than the world below. It has become not just comfortable but comforting, a safe haven to escape to where they can see the world they love but the world cannot see them. It is the only reason, really, why Crowley keeps the apartment below, an apartment empty and echoing now in a way that is so much _more_ despite the presence of most of the furniture, now that his plants and his art and his self have upped roots and moved home to the cozy flat above the bookshop.

(This is why there is a perfect December night: sometimes, the universe aligns to give two beings exactly what they both want. When the thing they want is an excuse to sit close, and quiet, and share the particular closeness of two beings sitting alone together under the vast expanse of a star-studded sky, well - cloudless nights are an easy miracle.)

They have been contemplating the night sky in quiet companionship, and a tangle of limbs, for the past hour. Crowley, more familiar with the stars by far, has snuggled down to rest his head on the angel’s shoulder, face tilted towards the sky. His legs are curled in such a way that his feet are tucked under Aziraphale’s thighs, and the angel could use his knees as a chin rest, if he so desired. Instead, Aziraphale cards the fingers of one hand through the demon’s hair, and watches the stars and his love in turn.

He had caught sight of a falling star at the edge of his vision while drinking in the content smile on Crowley’s face, but his mind is too preoccupied with the latter to connect the former with Crowley’s earlier question. “What was that, love?”

“Humans make wishes on falling stars,” Crowley replies, instead of repeating. Aziraphale smiles to himself and presses a kiss into silken fire.

“Yes. It’s a rather lovely tradition, I think.”

When Aziraphale fails to follow up this agreement with an answer, Crowley prompts, “So did you? Make a wish?”

“Of course not.”

“No?”

“I have everything I could ever wish for, right here.”


End file.
